Drabbles
by sweet16994
Summary: He drew the eyes. The eyes that held so many secrets and shed so many tears. A dash of brown there. Her blue eyes with the specks of brown and green. He drew the pain, the hurt, the sadness. He drew his eyes. OOC


**Hey! I've decided to write something again! But this is only going to be a one-shot. Not really a love story either. **

**Also, Bella has blue-eyes. It's OOC but it wasn't really meant for Twilight. I just wrote this up and decided to publish it. **

He fiddled with the pencil in his hand, twirling it in aimless circles. He glanced up at the clock. 12:03. He sighed and threw his pen and sketch book on the ground, falling backwards onto the bed, one arm over his eyes. He may as well go to sleep; he obviously wasn't getting anything done.

She stared at the blank page. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She would type a page, erase a page, type a page. Nada. She didn't know what to write. She didn't know how to write. The blank page seemed to taunt her, as if laughing at her inability to write. She looked down at the time in the lower left corner of her laptop. 12:03. She decided to go so sleep; she obviously wouldn't get anything done by staying up any later.

The alarm clock blared. 5:02. He slapped his hand down, probably more harshly than need be. He groaned and heaved himself up. Time to get to work. Reaching down, he picked up his sketch book and pencil, devoting himself to perfecting the naked woman on his paper.

The phone rang, the twinkling tune waking her up. Who would be calling her at this hour? She opened the phone, annoyed. "What? Sorry, you woke me up. Really? You're lying. I'm tired. No. Fine. Bye." She sighed as she went to her closet to pick out an outfit for the day, barely throwing a glance at her naked body as it passed by the mirror.

He couldn't get it right. He'd done it millions of times before. His inspiration was shot to hell. The curve of her breast was too much and didn't match the rest of the body. He erased it again and then tried again. The scratching of the pencil was the only sound in the silent room, the screams from his childhood held at bay for a little while.

She threw herself into her car before weaving in between the taxis. She had a coffee appointment with her only friend. She could never say no to her, no matter how tired she was, or how much she didn't want to go. And she really didn't want to go. She saw a man hit a woman across the cheek. A flood of screams flooded her mind. She closed her eyes against them, but they wouldn't leave her alone. They echoed in her mind, the high pitched scream, the begging, the sobbing. And then it all stopped. Just to start again.

:-:-:

"Sorry. No. I was up late. Working. Because. None of your business. He's fine. I'm not lying. No. Fine. I don't know. Of course. Maybe not. No. I have to go." She sipped on her coffee, which had gone cold already. Her friend had left abruptly; something about not being able to stand sulking people. After her friend left, so did she. To another coffee shop, a coffee shop that was just down the street. It was falling apart but she loved it anyway. The coffee sucked, and so did the service for that matter. But she loved it anyway. Not everything could be perfect. God knew she wasn't.

He walked to the park. Children ran around, screaming. Parents chased them, laughing. Or frustrated because they had a meeting they were late for. But they seemed happy. They were still smiling. Their lives were perfect. At least, that's what it looked like on the outside. But they could have financial problems. They could be victims of abuse. Everyone knew you couldn't trust what you saw on the surface. It was a lie; it was all a lie. Nobody was perfect. Everybody had a storm brewing underneath. It was only a matter of time before it showed. God knew that his had already and left a path of destruction in his wake.

She didn't want to talk to him. But there she was. There he was. She stared at him. He stared at her. He had just finished some bull shit speech about going to rehab and anger management. He was a different person. He was better. He was sorry. Lies. They were all lies. People didn't change. At least, they didn't change from the devil into an angel. It wasn't possible. She wished he'd stop lying. She got up and left, not looking behind her. Lies were the only words that ever left his mouth.

He got up, unable to bear it anymore. Why forge perfection when it didn't exist? Why pursue love when it never ended well? Relationships. He scoffed. All they did was ruin you. They tore you apart from the inside out. And left you broken. But it didn't matter. It wasn't like perfection existed. And happiness- it only made the blow of depression that much harder. If you were always depressed, then one didn't notice it. It was like a pin prick. A needle. A needle that injects one more dosage of heroin into your system. But it didn't leave you on a high; it just bogged you down, dragging you farther into the depths of the water.

She sipped her cold, crappy coffee, staring off into space. My life is perfect. My life is perfect. She said to herself again and again. She pretended she didn't have someone who had made her adolescent years hell, with brutal beatings each night, forcing themselves back into her life. She pretended she didn't have a mother who had taken him back each night. She pretended her life was normal, her life was perfect. She could only pretend for so long before it all came crashing back down on her, the imperfection and struggle her life had been. The obstacles hadn't made her stronger. What hadn't killed her so far was only an impetus to do the job herself. To throw herself off the cliff into the cold, icy waters below.

He strolled into the coffee shop, brooding over the flood of emails he had ignored. Brother, please come home and Son, we miss you, and of course, the We need you. They didn't need him. They were living their pretend perfect lives in their quaint little house. They didn't need him when he needed them. When he was up to his ears in debt. When his fiancé was shot by the mob. They wouldn't help him. He didn't need them. They didn't need him. He needed no one. He was alone. And he was fine with that.

She looked up as the doors opened. Hers eyes met those of a tall, dark, and handsome stranger. Troubled green eyes. Dimmed by the ghosts of his past. He was probably just going to be another man to enter her life, hurt her, and leave. She glared. She didn't need trouble. Not when she had just escaped it. She was a peace. But her beating heart, with waves of fear and anger, knocking out everything in its way, said otherwise. But she never listened to her heart. She never did. It only betrayed her, made the fall from love that much harder. She looked down on the swirls of her murky coffee, drowning under the waves of hate and love and betrayal. Drowning under the waves of life.

He saw her. She saw him. He looked at her. She glared at him. Those blue eyes. Wide and terrified. Like she had seen things no other had seen; like she had seen things she wished she hadn't. She looked down. But he knew her eyes would haunt him. "A table for one. Just one. Positive. No. I'm sure. Please, I just need a table. And a cup of coffee." He sat down at the table next to hers, on the opposite side which she sat. Blue-eyed girl, please look up. He ignored his heart, which screamed at him to stop this obsession of his. It would only come back to bite him. But he stared at her anyway. Stared at her until she would look up.

She felt eyes burning into her. She knew it was him. That guy. That guy with those green eyes. That guy that would tear her already broken heart into tinnier pieces. But she looked up. And she wanted to regret it. But she couldn't. Those captivating green eyes. Those broken eyes. She wanted to know his story. She wanted to regret wanting to know his story. But she couldn't. She actually wanted something for once. And she knew that was going to be her downfall. But she continued to stare back anyway. Stare into those green eyes, drowning in them.

The coffee burned his throat on the way down. But he continued to drink it. It reminded him of the pain of the smoke as it scarred the tissue in his throat so many years ago. He deserved the pain. It was his fault. All his fault. And he broke their gaze. He looked down, shamed. How could he want something, want someone? He was plagued by guilt and nightmares, hate and spite. He didn't deserve anyone. She didn't deserve him. He was broken. She was whole. But then again, appearances always lied. But her eyes didn't. Maybe she wasn't as whole as he thought. He looked up. She had looked down. He stared at her again. Blue-eyed girl, please look up.

He had looked down. Probably decided that she wasn't as pretty as he thought. That's all guys like him saw. Boobs, butt, and face. She had all. But she was broken on the inside. Anyone could see that. Her bruises and bones may have healed, but she was broken. And this was no fairy tale. She was no Humpty Dumpty. She could never be put back together again. But she felt his eyes on her again. But she kept her gaze down. It was time she left anyway. And she felt better. It's because of the coffee. But she knew it wasn't. It was because of that guy. That guy with green eyes.

She had gotten up, throwing a wad of cash on the table. Mumbling a good-bye as she left. He twisted around to watch her leave. She had a nice car- a black convertible. It wasn't very sensible though. It was wet. And cold here. She was probably some idiot. Only an idiot had a convertible in England. But he watched her leave anyway. He watched her drive away, drive away from him.

He had watched her walk out. She felt the holes they burned into her with each step she took. Each step she took away from him. Him and his perfection. His perfect hair, perfect body, and dazzling eyes. He probably didn't have to pretend a day in his life. Him and his perfect life. He had it all. She had nothing. She had no one.

:-:-:

The store was crowded. Everyone was bustling around, talking on phones, picking out crackers for a dinner party that night. But he still felt alone. People were everywhere around him and he felt alone. Like he was the kid in the corner watching everyone else live. He was the kid in the corner, watching everyone else make a fool of themselves by pretending to be happy, by pretending to live a perfect life. He wasn't sure if he wanted to leave that corner. If he wanted to venture out into the world and pretend. Even if he did, he didn't know how to leave his corner. He brushed off his ridiculous thoughts and began looking for whiskey. He needed a nice, numbing night.

She looked for vegetables. Peppers. Lots and lots of peppers. They were just like people. They seemed whole on the outside; whole and healthy. But on the inside, there's a large whole, filled with seeds of hate. Some had more, some had less. She was a red pepper. They always look healthy and whole, but they always had the most seeds. She was filled with a lot of seeds of hate and disdain. Hate for the world. Hate for God, which taunted her with people, pretending to live perfect lives. She wished she could be one of those people. But she couldn't. She was too broken. She was too full of hate.

He saw her again. A coincidence. It must be. Coffee shop. Market. Coincidence. Or fate? It didn't matter. He enjoyed watching at her. The more he watched her, the more intrigued he was. She spent two minutes looking at sauces, pastas, and fruits. But when it got to the vegetables, she spent two minutes looking at each specimen. Did she have a vegetable fetish? She would tilt her head a little to the right when she saw something wrong with it before she put it back. If it seemed perfect, she would smile a little, her body relaxing from its tense position. He couldn't help but stare.

She felt eyes again. She turned around. And her heart stopped. Then started double time. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. She hated it. She loved it. It was the most alive she had felt in months. Years. She met his eyes. He seemed amused. Confused. Shocked. He probably thought she was stalking him. He probably like all the other guys those. Laughing at her behind her back. She sighed, turned around and returned to picking out her peppers. The one in her hand had a small black spot on it. She put it back and picked up the one next to it.

Whiskey. Whiskey. Whiskey. Damn. No whiskey. He ran a hand through his hair. They didn't have any whisky. What kind of half assed store was this? No whiskey? Pathetic. No wonder he never went to this store. He decided to just pay for his purchase of a single frozen pizza and leave. There had to be a store nearby that sold whiskey. That's what happens when you decide to leave your nice, comfy area of town for a cup of crappy coffee he thought to himself bitterly.

How may I help you today? She stared at the back of the employee's shirt. Help. No one could help her. No one would want to help. She wouldn't want to help herself. She wouldn't want to be herself. The employee felt her stare. He turned around and gave a small smirk. Probably thought she found him attractive. She didn't. She was just jealous. Jealous that he got to pretend that his life was perfect. Jealous that he believed it. Jealous that he had no reason not to.

Thank you for shopping here today. He wished he hadn't. They didn't have a goddamn bottle of whiskey. They were lucky he had even bought a pizza. It'd make a crappy dinner. Just like his morning's coffee had made a crappy breakfast. All in all, a crappy day. Nothing new. His monotonous crappy life. The same, never changing. He felt something, someone, bump into him. That was new.

She looked down at her beeping phone. Please talk to me. I've changed. I swear. She was about to delete it when she bumped into someone, dropping her phone. She was about to pick it up when she noticed who she had bumped into. It was him. The green-eyed guy from the coffee shop.

It was her. The girl from the coffee shop. He bent down to pick up her fallen Blackberry. His eyes drifted to the message. Please talk to me. I've changed. I swear. The delete this message sign was up. Ex-boyfriend perhaps? Then again, she looked like the kind with a perfect life. Shiny, straight, mahogany hair that probably did what she told it. A face clear of all makeup because she didn't need it and she knew it. Oh, but the deep, purple bags underneath her eyes. Just another person pretending her life was perfect. If he hadn't been looking at her eyes, he wouldn't have noticed the single tear that was making its way down her cheek. Maybe she wasn't so perfect after all.

He handed her the phone when she noticed that he was staring at her face. She felt self-conscious; she probably had a coffee mustache from the morning. Or dried toothpaste on her face. Her life wasn't perfect. She wasn't perfect. She knew it and so did everyone who knew her. They made a point of it. She had given up on being perfect long ago. Long before she even knew what the word meant. But the man in front of her seemed to be perfect. Perfectly tousled sandy hair and just enough to morning scruff to make him look less sophisticated and more rough. The only thing that wasn't perfect about him were the bags under his eyes. She looked down though. She needed to get outside, to cry about her pathetic life. And she wasn't about to do that in front of Mr. Perfect. She pulled away from him and ran. Ran from perfection.

She ran. Just bolted out the doors. Was it something he had done? He was confused. He followed her anyway. Wanted to make sure she was okay. She didn't seem okay. Was it that text? Why did he care? He didn't. He shouldn't. But he followed her anyway. This odd, vegetable-obsessed girl intrigued him. And not many things caught his eye. He ventured away from the corner to follow her. Maybe leaving that corner wasn't as hard as the thought.

She ran to the park across the street. To the park that had a large oak tree where she often sat and wrote. Typed her stories. Her editor had wanted another bestseller. And she was writing it. Another pathetic book. Her life, like her pathetic books, was heart wrenching. And a single, pathetic text could send her into a bawling mess. She closed her eyes, a few tears escaping from under them. Her life was far from perfect. She didn't know how to make friends, how to keep them. Her coffee friend had had enough. Now she had no one. No one to help her, no one to support her, no one to comfort her. She was alone. Utterly alone in a world with 6 billion people.

The sobs were wracking through her small body and he wondered if he should go back into that corner. He didn't know her. She didn't know him. They were complete strangers. He paused, hesitant. He couldn't deal with tears. He knew tears. He couldn't stand them. But she really looked like she needed someone. Don't be a coward. He took a deep breath and crossed the street.

She wanted to die. She had never had more conviction of the thought. Not when she was pushed down three flights of stairs or when the burn of the belt hit her again. She was tired of living, she was just so tired. She hurt too bad. And it wasn't something that a band aide could just cover up. It was something deeper than that. She needed help. She just didn't know how to ask for it. Or who to ask for it.

He chickened out at the last second. He was pathetic. A pathetic excuse for a man. He wasn't the gentleman his mother had raised him to be. He wasn't the strong man his father had raised him to be. He was a shriveled, tired excuse for a human being. He needed help. And he knew who to ask. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to.

He drew the eyes. The eyes that held so many secrets and shed so many tears. One stroke here. One stroke there. And a dash of brown here. Those blue eyes with the specks of brown and green. He drew the pain, the hurt, the sadness. He painted the hate, the loathe, and disgust. He drew his eyes.

She wrote about the man she saw that day. The man that had been hurt and shunned by everyone. The man that saw past the deception and trickery of perfection. The man that hated and was disgusted by it. She described his green eyes. Those green eyes that held self-loathe. Those green eyes with purple bags under them, that saw the ruse that life was. She wrote about herself.

:-:-:

He saw her. Not in real life. But on the cover of the newspaper. Her face, blown up with the book she had just written, underneath it. Welcome to the Real World. A bestseller. Predicted to be the bestseller of the year. His lips pulled up into a smile. He was right when he had assumed that she saw past the mirage of life and its perfection. He decided that he was going to make a trip to the book store. He didn't get far enough through the paper to notice his face, blown up with his latest painting underneath.

She saw him. His face in the paper. His painting. Her eyes. He had drawn her. And she knew it was her. Her eyes. With their specks of brown and green. Their specks of imperfection. That was all the painting really was. But they conveyed so much. Hurt, hate, disgust. She needed help. But she also needed that painting. No one had understood her so well. Painting first, then help.

There she was. In real life. Signing books. Her most recent book. About him. He had flipped open to page 69 and the words green eyes popped off the page. Green eyes, bags underneath, pain, hurt, self-loathe. And he knew it was him. But that was fine. He had drawn her. It was a fair trade off. But he was shocked by how clearly she had seen him. Yes, he needed help. He pulled out his phone and dialed his father's number.

She had been intercepted by her editor. They wanted her at the book signing. All it brought was hand cramps. No sense of accomplishment. No sense of pride. Nothing. She was numb. As if she had jumped off that cliff into the icy water below. Completely numb. Her phone vibrated. Please talk to me. I'm so sorry. I owe you so much more than I've given you. Please tell me it's not too late. Of course it was too late. He seemed nice. He pretended to be nice. But she had seen him angry and drunk. Angry and drunk and with a belt.

"Hi Dad? I need your help."

She heard a voice say those words. And she was jealous. She wished she could say that to her dad. Ask that of her dad. She pulled out her phone.

"Thanks Dad."

Meet me at the coffee shop across from the park.

**Did you like it? It's just a little something about how people can influence others without every really meeting. IT'S A ONE-SHOT. I have finals coming up anway, so I woulnd't be able to continue it. Thanks for reading! Please leave a review.**


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